“Sanatan, Not Just Sustainability”

Dr Rajendra Singh, the Water Man of India, believes that India’s traditional ecological wisdom is not nostalgic folklore but a living, scientific system rooted in culture. In an interaction with Abhijit Mulye, the Political Editor of ‘The Perfect Voice’, Dr. Singh spoke about how indigenous practices—johads, shramdaan, village councils and cultural rituals—can be scaled to meet the climate crisis. He emphasised on cultural values as the engine of ecological revival. His message is both practical and cultural. He insists that technical fixes alone cannot heal landscapes. Excerpts…

You have often said that traditional Indian knowledge is scientific and culturally embedded. How do you explain that link between culture and ecology?  

Our traditional knowledge is not an abstract philosophy; it is a practical science born of lived culture. The five elements—earth, water, air, fire and space—are woven into our rituals, songs and daily practices. Because our ancestors treated nature as sacred, caring for it was part of their samskars, their moral habits. This cultural reverence produced techniques that worked: water harvesting, community rules, and seasonal customs that conserved soil and forests. As I have said, the scientificity of our traditional Indian knowledge is profound and has been well‑proven through centuries of practice.

You use the word Sanatan rather than sustainable. Why that distinction?  “Sustainable” often implies maintenance of the status quo. Sanatan means continuous rejuvenation. It is a cultural frame that sees life as cyclical and regenerative. When development is rooted in Sanatan principles, it becomes a practice of giving back—of replenishing what we take. That cultural orientation changes behaviour: communities stop over‑extracting and begin to protect common resources. This is not sentimentalism. It is a governance model that binds ecological practice to everyday rituals and local law.

Your work in Rajasthan revived rivers and forests. How did culture shape those projects?  

Everything we did began with the village. We did not impose blueprints from outside. We sat in Gram Sansads, listened to elders, sang local songs, and organised shramdaan—voluntary labour that is itself a cultural act. Building a johad is technical, but its success depends on social rules: who can draw water, which crops are allowed, how the forest is protected. These rules are enforced by social sanction, not just by a contract. When people feel the johad is theirs—when it is part of their festivals and daily life—they guard it. That cultural ownership is the reason rivers like the Arvari returned.

Can you describe the johad’s ecological logic in cultural terms?

 Johad is a simple earthen structure, but it embodies a cultural ethic: slow the water, let it sink, and respect the land’s contours. The community builds it together, and the harvest of water becomes a shared blessing. The water that percolates revives wells, brings back trees and wildlife, and restores local climate. The ritual of building and maintaining the johad—songs, feasts, collective labour—creates a moral bond between people and place. That bond is the technology’s true strength.

How do you reconcile modern tools with traditional practice?  

Technology is useful when it serves the community. Satellite maps can reveal paleochannels; hydrological models can guide placement of catchments. But these tools must be handed to Gram Sabhas, not corporations. If technology centralises control, it destroys the cultural fabric that sustains the system. The right approach is to marry high‑tech diagnostics with high‑touch community action. Let the map inform the village’s decision; let the village decide.

You speak about time and myth—Yugas and folktales—as ecological lessons. How do these narratives help today?  

Folktales and myths encode ecological wisdom. Stories of kings who neglected the land and faced famine teach responsibility. Rituals that mark sowing and harvest synchronise human activity with seasonal cycles. These narratives are not mere metaphors; they are behavioural guides that shaped cropping patterns, forest use and water sharing. Reintroducing these cultural narratives helps communities remember why restraint and reciprocity matter.

How can policymakers integrate this cultural dimension into formal planning?  

Policy must begin with geo‑cultural mapping. India is a tapestry of distinct cultural ecologies; one‑size‑fits‑all schemes fail. Planners should work with practitioners—those who have built johads and revived rivers—not only with bureaucrats. Create institutional spaces where Gram Sabhas, elders and local artisans shape projects. Replace extractive contracts with long‑term community stewardship models. Above all, recognise culture as infrastructure: rituals, norms and local governance are as important as roads and pipes.

What about youth and climate anxiety—how do you bring them into this cultural practice?  

Young people must be invited into the village, not lectured from afar. Practical immersion—planting trees, mapping local water paths, participating in shramdaan—turns anxiety into agency. Education must include Lok Vidya, people’s knowledge, so students learn to read the land. When youth experience the joy of collective work and see tangible results, they become carriers of culture rather than passive consumers.

What single change would you ask of leaders and citizens?  

Shift from a transactional view of nature to a relational one. Treat water as a sacred trust, not a commodity. When leaders legislate with that ethic and communities practise it, the earth heals. Culture is not an ornament; it is the operating system of sustainable life. Restore that system, and rivers, forests and communities will follow.